


for the sun was not enough

by pawn_vs_player



Series: leave the light behind [3]
Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Westerberg Blows Up, Ambiguous Morality, Bombing, F/M, Ghosts, Hallucinations, Mass Murder, Mental Instability, Mild Gore, Murder, Non-canon Character Death, Unhealthy Relationships, What-If, canon character death, does it even matter, i mean really are they one or the other, like. it's not a good time fam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-26 19:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13864431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pawn_vs_player/pseuds/pawn_vs_player
Summary: veronica isn't quite as iron-willed as in canon. the smoke billows in her wake.





	for the sun was not enough

**Author's Note:**

> my sister just finished our school's production of heathers and all my Feels about this musical have returned so. here we are, fam.

She's not sure when he stopped sounding crazy. That might have scared her, two weeks ago - but two weeks ago, Heather Chandler was making Martha cry, and Kurt and Ram were stalking the halls of Westerberg High like they were better than everyone else. 

Two weeks ago, Veronica Sawyer had never spoken to, heard of, or seen Jason Dean before.

Veronica now pities past-Veronica deeply. Past-Veronica thought that she could only be safe and happy by clinging to the skirts of the Heathers and begging on her knees for boons. She'd dropped Martha like a piece of trash for the chance to be popular. She'd wanted to be solid Teflon, shielded from the gladiator pit of high school. She'd thought that the only way through was up.

Past-Veronica was a fool.

Two weeks ago, she was making plans for the Princess Bride and Jiffy-Pop. Well, she's sure those plans can still work out, if Martha doesn't mind JD joining them.

It seems odd to think of going somewhere without him, now. He's the one who's kept her afloat. He's the one who protects her from their Thunderdome of a school. He's the one who showed her how to cure the poison in their town. 

Nine days ago, Veronica wrote Heather Chandler's suicide note with JD's hand warm and solid on her shoulder. Four days ago, Veronica knelt in the dead leaves, her hands shaking against Ram's cold neck, as JD chased Ram down.

It took her a while. She doesn't entirely understand why, now, but it did. Looking back, it seems so clear, but it hadn't seemed that way then.

She'd written the note for Kurt and Ram before they drove out to the woods. JD placed it for her because her hands couldn't stop shaking. He drove them away, back to his house because his dad was out, and he'd held her until she stopped trembling. Then he'd driven her home, and she'd kissed him goodbye before sending him off so she could wash the dirt off her clothes in peace.

She'd gone to 7-11 by herself, in a clean skirt and blazer, socks strikingly red and hair held back with a plain black tie. She'd gotten a cherry slurpie and drunk the whole thing in less than a minute, and the pain of the brain freeze was the best thing she'd ever felt.

She'd thought, fingers crushing the empty cup as she fought not to wince,  _I could get used to this._

She'd thrown the cup out and driven to school, and when lunchtime came she'd walked to JD's locker and told him to teach her how to shoot. 

"Next time," she'd said, "you shouldn't have to do all the work."

 

That was four days ago.

Today, Martha is clutching her books to her chest, standing at Veronica's locker, and being too smart for her own good.

 _The Princess Bride will have to wait a little longer,_ she thinks, and wishes Martha was just a little less perceptive - or a little less naive, maybe, since she still thinks Kurt loves her.

But then, if it wasn't for Martha's endless hope and belief that someday, Kurt would come back to her, Veronica would never have confronted Heather. Never have gone to JD's house. Never have given Heather that deadly cup. Never have felt the life drain from the boy who wanted to rape her, the boy who beat up JD when he wanted to protect her.

 ~~Come on, Veronica~~ , Heather says, blue spilling from her lips, eyes red and wide as she hangs over Martha's shoulder. The boys are behind her, as always, following her lead like everyone else.  ~~You know what you gotta do.~~

Veronica does know.

"I wrote that note, Martha. The Heathers put me up to it. The whole school was in on the joke! He didn't love you!"

Martha runs, sniffling. Veronica's chest hurts. 

She goes to find JD. Standing in his arms, face hidden in his coat, nothing can touch her. It's just the two of them, in a world of their own. 

_We're what killed the dinosaurs, indeed._

"Martha suspects you," she says. 

"What do you want to do?" he says.

"Wait," she says. "She's never been able to handle hard truths," she says. "I don't think we'll have to do anything," she says.

 

They don't.

Veronica wants to punch Heather Duke in her surgeon-crafted nose. Instead, she clenches her fists in her skirt and thinks,  _Later._

 

JD shows her the deconstruction materials in his basement, snuck out from his dad's stock. He shows her how to hook up the timer, teaches her the differences between C4 and thermals and detonation materials, drills her on the ranges of each type of explosive. Kisses her when she can recite how to make a pipe bomb from memory. Says, "You're the most incredible thing I've ever seen."

Says, "You're the only good thing in this world."

Says, "Our love is God."

Veronica smiles. Connects wires. Kisses him. Says, "You're beautiful."

Says, "I'm so damn glad I found you."

Says, "Our love is God."

 

She buys marshmallows and graham crackers, brings the chocolate from home. They make the first one in his backyard, standing over the flaming pile of textbooks and papers Veronica had dragged out of her trunk.

She's never going to need them again, after all.

They share it, strings of melting marshmallow stretching between their mouths, chocolate painful-hot against her tongue. She kisses him, steals the last of the graham cracker from his mouth, kisses him harder in apology. He tastes like burnt sugar and the smoke billowing around them.

She loves him. God, how she loves him.

 

(There are two bags in Veronica's trunk. One of them is empty: it had held all the records she could find of her attendance at Westerberg High.)

(The other one has a haphazard collection of things: a copy of Moby Dick, a few blue blazers, a plaid skirt, white socks, other clothes. A blue scrunchie. A pad of paper and a pack of pens. A silver pistol. The rest of the s'mores-making materials.)

(There is one other thing in Veronica's trunk.)

 

Tires screech from in front of the house. His father is home.

She kisses his forehead, his nose, holds his face and keeps his eyes on her. 

"Go get the stuff from the basement, JD," she says, smoke stinging her eyes. She pretends it's the excitement of what's to come that's making him shake, pretends it's the light that makes his face look pale, pretends his father's presence means nothing at all.

"Go on," she whispers, kisses him again. He clings to her wrist. 

"Veronica - "

"It's okay," she promises, and pretends it's the smoke driving her to tears. "Go."

He goes. (He's always obeyed her when it's important.)

Veronica can hear Big Bud Dean coming through the house. He walks like an elephant, like the ground is cracking and smashing under his every step. He destroys everything he touches - or, at least, he tries to.

Veronica will not let him destroy this last, precious thing.

She unlocks her car, pushes the empty bag aside, and smiles. Perfect. One last thing the Heathers had poisoned. One last thing to cleanse with blood.

"Dad? I know I didn't ask permission for a bonfire, but I did it anyway! Oh, and my girlfriend's here!"

Her fingers tighten, her jaw clenches. The slow, mocking drawl of his voice sends fire curling in her stomach. She pulls on the gloves her mother had bought her last winter, takes her reaper's scythe in her hands and savors the weight.

"Hello, Mr Dean," she says, not leaning out of her trunk. She hears his lumbering footsteps leave the back porch and approach her.

"What is going on back here?" he says. He sounds like he's smiling, like he has a right to smile, like he has a right to pretend that there is nothing but goodwill between them.

She supposes he doesn't know that he's pretending, but still, she has no interest in forgiving him for it.

Veronica is tired of liars. Veronica is tired of lying.

"Where is he, Veronica?"

Her knuckles are white under the thick cloth. She can feel his breath, hot and sour, on the back of her neck. He must be able to see what she's holding.

She steps back from the trunk, straightens up, faces him head-on.

For a moment, her grip falters. For a moment, he is just a man in an ugly shirt and a gold chain. For a moment, he is just a human person, one with flaws but one with virtues, too. For a moment, he deserves a chance.

The moment passes.

He is not just a man, and he has no virtues. He deserves no more chances.

He killed JD's mother. He has hurt JD.

He is a monster. Veronica knows what to do with monsters.

" _We're the asteroid that's overdue,_ " she whispers, and doesn't wait for his brow to crease in confusion before she strikes.

 

(He will never tell her, but JD is watching from the back window.)

 

The croquet mallet comes down again, and again, and again. She hears his nose break. He falls after half a dozen strokes. She doesn't let him get back up. 

Her skirt is stained. Wetness is dripping into her eyes, wetness that isn't just sweat. His knees crunch under the mallet and she smiles. 

He tries to speak. She steps on his throat. 

The head of the mallet breaks against his skull. She steps back, waits for a moment. He cannot help but move, cannot help but gurgle for air. She despises him.

She snaps the remains of the croquet mallet over her knee, tosses the end with the uselessly splintered head into the fire. Just one more thing she doesn't need. Just one more thing to turn to dust.

" _They'll die because we say they must_ ," she hums, and steps on his throat again.

His eye bursts in a gush of juices and blood. She wrinkles her nose. Of course he's polluting everything around him, even as he dies.

She steps back and grimaces. There's blood in her shoe. 

She considers the body, watching it twitch in its final spasms. She kicks it in the side. Blood sprays from its mouth as it coughs. 

She strips off her gloves, dropping them into the fire. She peels her sweaty, blood-stained blazer off too, wipes down the handle jutting out of the corpse's face just in case, lets the blazer fall from her hand to join the gloves. The flames sputter, but she's careful, and it keeps on blazing happily.

The corpse twitches, a hand stretching out. She stamps down on it and relishes in the crack of those disgusting, meaty fingers.

"You're never going to touch him again," she hisses, and brushes her hands down her skirt. They come back streaked with red. She sees Heather poking at the corpse with a toe, Kurt and Ram examining it in awed horror. 

Heather looks up, meets Veronica's eyes. ~~I knew you would come far~~ , she says, in that same introspective, half-admiring tone she'd used when she said,  _"You do have good bone structure."_   ~~Now you're truly a Heather~~ , she adds, with that dripping grin.

Veronica says nothing. She pulls the broken piece of wood out of the body's eye and tosses it into the flames, watching the blue paint peel off the wood from the heat.

 ~~Yo, girl,~~ Heather whispers, as JD comes out of the house carrying their masterpiece. Veronica smiles at him and walks to her car, Kurt and Ram scattering out of her path. Still, Heather stands her ground, blue streaked down her chin and mouth curled up. ~~Smell how gangsta you are~~.

"Veronica?" JD asks, climbing into the passenger seat. 

Veronica smells smoke and iron. She licks her lips and tastes salt.

Heather drifts closer, puts her hands around Veronica's throat. ~~Yo, girl,~~ she coos. ~~Feel a bit punchy?~~

Veronica pushes through her, gets in the driver's seat, turns the key in the ignition. Heather sits on the hood, head pushing through the windshield. For a moment, her big, glaring eyes are noxious green instead of hellfire scarlet.

Heather leans close, eyes soft and narrow. Her mouth curls around the words and she smiles like she's giving Veronica a gift. ~~You've earned that red scrunchie~~.

Veronica's foot jams down against the gas.

"There's something I want to take care of," she says to JD, not taking her eyes off the path in front of them, "when we get there. Before we hit the button."

"Alright," he says. Heather is blown away in the wind as Veronica whips down the road.

 

JD kisses her in the parking lot, the bag of thermals between them. " _I was meant to be yours,_ " he hums, wiping a streak of red off her cheek. " _We were meant to be one._ "

Veronica takes the bag from him. The bell rings, audible even from where they stand. " _And there's the final bell,_ " she notes, grinning. " _It's one more dance and then farewell._ "

They walk toward the gym together, Veronica holding the bag and JD holding a gun, their free hands tangled together between them. They have an hour before the rally. It's time to go to work.

JD takes the left side and Veronica the right. The hours of practice in his basement pay off: her fingers are nearly as sure as his as she weaves wires together and tapes the little blinking packs under bleachers where they're less likely to be noticed. There's still blood on her face and neck, drying and sticky. She makes a mental note to stop by 7-11 after this is over, clean the taste of smoke out of her mouth with a cherry slushie, drive out the gurgling death rattle with cold numbness.

She can feel eyes on her, big and red and proud. She doesn't turn around.

 

They're done in the gym just in time. As cars roll up, music blaring and engines rattling, JD grabs Veronica's hand and pulls her toward the back. The two of them are giggling a little, heady with adrenaline. They find the stairwell to the basement: the moment the door closes behind them, Veronica pushes JD up against the wall and kisses him, hands scratching up under his shirt, hips pressing close. She can feel his heartbeat in his mouth. 

He pulls away, gasping. "C'mon," he says, clearly struggling to keep away from her lips. "We have, we have time later." 

She nods, regretful, and steps back. Cheats a little by adjusting her skirt, drawing his hands to it. He licks his lips. 

"We have time later," she reminds him. His eyes darken. She smiles, bright and clean, perfectly innocent. "Well, come on. Let's not keep them waiting."

He shakes his head, laughing a little, and follows her down the stairs.

 

He sets up the detonator on her request. Veronica wants this to be perfect, and this was his idea, after all. He should get to be the one to make it happen.

5:00, flashes the timer in bright red. 4:59. 

The red knocks loose the rattling thought in Veronica's head. "Shit," she says. "I have to get something done."

JD catches her wrist. His eyes are large and dark. " _You changed my heart and set loose all that turmoil shit inside,_ " he says, soft. 

She reels him in, kisses him. "Come on, you sap," she teases gently. "I just have a little something to collect."

 

Heather Duke is not in the gym, but Veronica knew she wouldn't be. She's out the back, cigarette in her hand, a piece of paper clutched in her hand. As Veronica draws closer, she sees the color of the paper and thinks,  _Of course._  

Of course this is what Heather Duke is doing today, when Heather Chandler was meant to be watching Heather MacNamara kick ass on the gym floor. Of course this is what Heather Duke is doing today, after Heather Chandler drank drain-o and Heather MacNamara confessed to thinking about suicide on live television. Of course this is what Heather Duke is doing today, with Heather Chandler's faked suicide note in her hand and Heather MacNamara singing inside. 

Of course this is what Heather Duke is doing today, with her old teflon coating melting away into the dirt and cigarette smoke choking down any tears she might want to shed. 

She turns to the sound of Veronica's throaty laughter.

"God," Veronica says, tasting smoke and iron, "God, why did I expect anything different from you."

JD squeezes her hand. She squeezes back and then pulls out of his grip. Heather Duke is frozen, cigarette dropping ash onto the grass, pink paper crumpled in her fist.

"You really can't function without them, can you," Veronica probes. "You're not cut out to be the mythic bitch, Duke. You're just meant to follow her."

Pale hands wrap around Duke's neck. Duke doesn't feel them. A bleach-blue mouth presses against Duke's cheek. Duke doesn't feel that either.

"You're pathetic," Veronica whispers. The cigarette falls. Duke does, too, knees thumping against the dirt, the note fluttering to the grass. Her sobs are startling in their intensity and in their silence.

Of course Heather Duke doesn't make noise when she cries.

Veronica takes her chin in her hand, lifts Duke's wet face up. Her nose is less perfect now, blotched with ugly red and smeared with tears and snot. Veronica wonders how she was ever scared of this girl.

"You're so fucking pathetic." 

 ~~Oh, the world, it held me down,~~ Heather hums, fingers brushing icy-hot against Veronica's on Duke's jawline.  ~~Weighed like a concrete prom queen crown...~~

"You didn't earn this." 

Veronica is not gentle or kind when she pulls the scrunchie out of Heather Duke's hair. A few dark strands come with it. Duke doesn't even flinch: she keeps staring at Veronica, face dumb and afraid. Veronica tugs it down onto her wrist and looks back at Duke, considering. 

~~Maybe I can help the world by leaving...~~

Duke falls back with a little yelp. Veronica's toes smart with the force of her kick, but it's a pain she's starting to relish. She holds her hand out and back, and JD, precious lovely boy that he is, knows exactly what she wants. 

The metal is warm in her hand, warm from JD's palm. Heather Duke stares up at Veronica from the ground, head in Heather Chandler's transparent lap. 

 ~~~~That head of blonde curls tilts up, up, up. Heather's mouth bleeds blue as she grins wide, too wide, lips cutting through her cheeks. Her eyes are burning.

Veronica's hand is trembling ever-so-slightly around the grip of the gun. Heather Duke is gazing down the barrel, attention swallowed up by the black hole that wants to keep her from opening her cruel, stupid mouth ever again.

Heather Chandler cocks her head to one side.  ~~Honey, whatchu waiting for...~~

 

Red is really not Heather Duke's color, Veronica decides, handing the gun back to JD and thanking him for his foresight in fitting it with a silencer. 

Red is not her color, that's for sure, but...

But damn, if it's not a beautiful sight to see Heather Duke with a scarlet halo spreading under her head, that big mouth ruined and that carefully-crafted face blown apart. 

Veronica's socks are wet: she's standing too close to Duke's body. She doesn't particularly care. (And anyway, they're red already.)

She pulls the scrunchie off her wrist, looks at it for a long moment. Feels those eyes on her. 

 ~~Hey-o Westerberg,~~ two voices warble from behind her. Unlike Heather, they'd never been suited to singing.  ~~Tell me, what's the sound?~~

Veronica turns away.

~~Here comes Westerberg, comin' to put you in the ground!~~

"The fire will take care of her," she says. "Besides, they won't be able to prove she didn't fire the shot herself, even if they can't find the gun."

JD doesn't argue with her.

~~Westerberg will knock you out...~~

As Veronica passes the side door to the gym, a flash of bright yellow stops her. She can't help but peer through the glass. Her stomach twists.

Heather MacNamara. The only Heather Veronica ever wanted to save.

For a moment, she wants to call it all off. She wants to run in there and pull Heather out. She wants to take the gun and not have to see anything that's coming. She wants - 

JD's hand is warm on her wrist. She cannot help but look at him; he's a gravitational pull. 

" _Don't give up on me now,_ " he whispers. The hurricane in her chest is clear for him to see. He knows her, right down to her bones, just like she knows him. " _You carved open my heart, you can't just leave to bleed. I can't take it alone."_ He brushes her hair away from her cheek.  _"Sure, you're scared, I've been there. I can set you free."_  

His mouth burns against hers. He tastes like iron and salt.

" _Let's finish what we've begun._ "

Veronica closes her eyes against the yellow wrapped around her heart, buries herself in the darkness of his shoulder, breathes in the metallic scent that clings to his coat. She's made her choice.

" _We'll burn it down and then... then we'll build the world again,_ " she says, standing straight again. JD's eyes are dark and shining. He's never looked so beautiful before, somehow, even though he's always beautiful to her. " _We'll build our garden here..."_

" _Raise our city here,_ " JD agrees. She takes his hand, gunpowder smearing across both their palms.

" _We'll make them disappear._ "

~~And send you straight to Hell!~~

 

The s'mores taste more like smoke and ash than chocolate and marshmallow, but Veronica doesn't mind. She's starting to like it. It makes her think of JD, and of the blood on her broken croquet mallet, and of the hole in Heather Duke's head. Good things. 

Heather Chandler sits next to Veronica as the school blazes.  ~~Yo, girl,~~ she whispers. Veronica turns to look at her, but for once, Heather doesn't seem to have anything else to say. 

Instead, she stands up and walks toward the ruins of Westerberg. Veronica watches her as she follows a confident path through the rubble, as Kurt and Ram fall in behind her. Veronica watches as Heather Chandler leans down and begins to dig through blasted brick and shattered linoleum, and suddenly, Veronica knows what Heather is looking for.

"C'mon," she says, getting up. "We're out of marshmallows." 

 

The hospital is cold. Veronica feels relieved when the nurse says "She's asleep, but if you want, you can still go in". She didn't want to talk to her, she just wanted to see her.

Just one more time. 

JD isn't here. He's waiting outside in the car. He understood that this one thing, Veronica needed to do alone.

"Hey, Martha," she whispers. "I'm sorry I missed our movie night."

Martha's heart monitor beeps, beeps, beeps steadily. 

"And I'm sorry we won't have any more of them. I'm sorry that I can't be on Jiffy-Pop duty for you anymore. I'm sorry..."

Veronica closes her eyes, thinks about a unicorn shirt.

Beep, beep, beep.

"I'm sorry I killed your kindergarten boyfriend."

Thinks about a girl with long blonde hair and a dread pirate. 

Beep, beep, beep.

"But he would never have given you a happy ending."

Veronica leans down, presses her mouth against Martha's forehead. Her skin is chilly. Beep, beep, beep. 

"I'll miss you," she says, and walks away.

 

 

JD is snoring in the passenger seat as Veronica's car flies down the highway. At this time of night, it's almost empty aside from them, and Veronica isn't scared of speeding.

Veronica isn't scared of much, these days. 

 _Dear Diary,_ she thinks, looking at the stars blooming across the sky as it whizzes by above her.  _I finally did it. I blew that goddamn town. I set Westerberg High ablaze and I smiled. I killed two people with my own hands and I smiled._

JD's breath hitches. He shifts a little, head rolling to the side. Veronica's heart throbs against her ribs. Her head is cold and clear, cherry and metal mixing on her tongue. 

_This is going to be beautiful._


End file.
